by Kathy Reichs
“Huh.” At times, Hi was a genius.
We encountered two more staffers in rapid succession. Hi bombarded each with questions as we strode by, looking busy and mildly irritated. Fortunately, the deeper into the building we went, the less scrutiny we received. We were nearing the end of the hallway when I spotted more broken glass.
“Hi!” I snagged his arm, pointed. “Look. Right in front of an exit, too.”
He peered back down the long corridor. “We’ve come a pretty long way, Tor. That glass might be totally random.”
I dropped to my knees, picked a loose shard off the concrete floor, and set it to my left. Then I removed a floor-mat fragment from my back pocket, being careful not to confuse the two. Finally, I dug a piece I’d taken from the display case from my front pocket and placed it to the right of the other two samples.
“Or not.” I shoved my nose within inches of the three fragments. “Glass has several distinctive properties. Not like a fingerprint, but unique enough to determine if shards came from the same broken pane.”
I examined the sliver to my right. “We know the exhibit hall case was made of tempered glass. We need to figure out if either or both of these other two samples match it.”
“Tempered?” Hi’s leg worked as he kept watch down the corridor. Though a quick thinker, he’d be hard pressed to explain why I was on all fours, face to the concrete.
“Strengthened.” I kept my focus on the three shiny bits before me. “Tempered glass is chilled rapidly as it cools, compressing the surface area. The process makes it more resistant to breakage. The glass composing the display case was likely also laminated—heat-sealed with thin layers of plastic between several panes of tempered glass. That makes it very tough to break. But when it does shatter, the glass cracks into a million tiny pieces. That’s what we found onstage.”
I picked up each fragment in turn. Held it to the light. Spun it in my fingers.
“I need a microscope,” I muttered. “Straight eyeballing is so imprecise.”
“Hey, genius.” Hi tapped his temple. “Aren’t you holding a bag of science tricks?”
“Yes!” I pulled out Tempe’s packet and located the cheap magnifying glass. “Perfect. Good thinking, Hiram.”
“It’s what I do.”
I pored over each shard again. Then once more, until I was sure.
“The observable properties are indistinguishable.” I grinned up at Hi, then pumped a fist. “All three fragments appear identical in color, size, shape, thickness, and texture. We’d need a full lab work-up to be dead certain—fluorescence comparison, curvature analysis, assessment of optical and refractive properties, chemical composition—but right now I’m prepared to say that these shards originated from the same pane of glass.”
“I didn’t follow most of that, but fine. How’d a fragment get all the way out here?”
I rose and dusted off my shorts. “Locard’s Exchange Principle.”
“Picard?” Hiram’s eyes went Frisbee round. “You mean Jean-Luc? Like, from Star Trek?”
“Edmond Locard.” Honestly. “He was a pioneer in forensic science. French. Locard said that a perpetrator always brings something to a crime scene, and inevitably takes something from it as well. It’s the basic principle of forensic science: ‘Every contact leaves a trace.’”
Hi nodded thoughtfully. “So our perp unknowingly carried these fragments all the way down here. Leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel.”
“Yep. On his clothes. In his shoes. Inside the T-800 as he wheeled it away.” I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter how the jerk transferred trace evidence. Only that he did.”
I picked up the sample fragments and placed them in their respective pockets. “Shards this tiny can get everywhere, and be shed for long periods after leaving the scene. Our thieves carried at least a few all the way down this corridor. To this door.”
“Fine work, Dr. Tory. That means we need inside here.” He tried the knob. The door swung open easily. “Ha! Who needs Shelton?”
We slipped through and closed the door behind us.
“Holy moly!” Hi put a hand to his chest. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
The shadowy chamber was the size of a large classroom. Metal racks lined three walls, with several long tables running down the center, creating aisles. A rectangular window split the far wall, overlooking a grass field nestled between the convention center and shimmering San Diego Bay. A door in the far corner accessed an outdoor staircase that descended to the common below.
Hi was transfixed by what the racks and shelves contained.
“Good morning, sunshine!” He grinned ear to ear.
An astonishing array of wicked-looking medieval weapons filled the room. Hundreds of them. Swords. Maces. Axes. Spears. A dozen others I couldn’t begin to identify.
The collection was both mind-blowing and inexplicable. What was all this stuff for?
Hi lifted a sinuous dagger from the closest rack. “Meh. Too light. Probably made of plastic.” Setting it down, he knelt beside a broadsword one space over. “Now we’re talking. This guy’s a real head-chopper.”
Then Hi frowned as he gave the blade a closer inspection. “Boo. The edge is blunted. These are prop weapons. Damn good ones, though.”
A name was taped to each rack space. Some were normal: Steve Kirkham. Others were comically invented: The Blood Duke of Astorca. Half of the racks stood empty.
“This stuff must belong to the role-playing guys.” Hi hefted a bronze helmet topped with an iron spike. “I heard they have mock battles or something.”
There was a sudden clanging outside, followed by screams of pain.
We shared a startled look, then hurried over to the window.
On the field below, a dozen medieval warriors were attacking a makeshift castle wall. They brandished a variety of weapons, and wore armor of varying quality. Though howling energetically, many appeared to be in less-than-peak physical condition.
A smaller group was defending the barrier. The two sides hammered at each other, bellowing loudly, but moving at a careful speed. As each combatant was touched by a blade, he or she fell dramatically to the ground, thrashed about in agony, then lay still.
I covered my mouth in surprise, then chuckled through my fingers. “It’s some silly war game. A mock battle. This is unbelievably—”
“Wonderful,” Hi breathed.
I was astounded by the number of spectators. Elaborate, antiquated tents ringed the battlefield, which had been divided into quarters. Crude wooden stands had been set at intervals to provide for a better view. Surrounding it all were troubadours, wenches, barbarians, and other costumed players, congregating in fluid groups to watch, eat, flirt, and surreptitiously check their cell phones.
“A freakin’ Renaissance fair!” Hi shook his head slowly. “But for comic book weirdos. It’s like 300 out here. Who knew?”
“These people have been here awhile,” I mused, gazing down at the sprawling encampment. “Probably since the convention began, but certainly by early this morning. How could someone sneak an iconic, life-sized robot out this way unnoticed?”
As we watched, the wall’s defenders repelled the last of the attackers. The surviving warriors hooted and screamed, banging weapons against shields and slapping one another’s backs. The raucous celebration carried all the way to where we watched.
I snorted. “Camelot held. Hooray.”
A new group took the field, squaring their shoulders to face a second company forming up diagonally across the grassy expanse. A rare moment of quiet stretched, then dozens of horns began blaring. With bloodcurdling screams, the two groups charged forward at full speed and began whacking at each other.
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “They do this all day?”
“All weekend,” Hi confirmed. “This is serious business, Brennan. Stop hating.”
“No, no.” Feeling a twinge of guilt. “Good for them. Seriously. I’m glad they have such an . . . enthusi
astic hobby. A passion. Whatever . . . this is.”
I turned to face the equipment room. “But I’m at a loss. The T-800 isn’t here, and I don’t see how anyone could’ve moved it out.”
“Should we look for more glass?” Hi sounded dubious.
“Might as well. You take the left side, I’ll take the right.”
We separated and circled the room, eyes searching the floor, the racks, the tabletops. Came up empty. We traded zones to double-check, but still found nothing.
Hi’s shoulders rose and fell. “I guess we’ve run out of haystack needles.”
I was about to agree when I noticed something over his shoulder. “Hi, check it out.”
I slipped past him to inspect a corner rack. A sign declared the space to be the exclusive domain of Lord Mace of the Wolf Brotherhood and Bearer of Oathbreaker, the Sword of Despair.
Please.
The shelf held only three items: a ratty blue gym bag, a staff ID badge for someone named Frank Connors, and a half-used roll of duct tape.
Blue-green duct tape.
“That could match the ransom note.” I was comparing the roll to my pilfered tape sample when it hit me. “Wait. Connors. Connors! RoboCop said someone named Connors was on his setup crew. But the guy didn’t show up this morning.”
I arched one brow. “Apparently the missing employee was into war games.”
“I’d say the brawl outside qualifies.” Hi broke out his happy dance. “Oh man, we’re so good at this! Let’s toss his bag.”
My fingers itched to do just that, but I resisted. “We can’t. We don’t have the right.”
Hi looked at me curiously. “Hardly the worst of our crimes today, Tor.”
But I was firm. “I’m not the NSA. We need more than a name and a roll of tape before riffling someone’s personal belongings.”
“Bo-ring,” Hi sang. “That’s not how Batman gets it done.”
I made a decision. Quickly formed a plan.
A little crazy, but hey? I was improvising.
“Let’s find Connors first.” My eyes dropped to my watch. “We don’t have much time. Text Shelton and Ben and have them meet us by the tourney field outside.”
Hi began typing, then stopped. “Wait. Why are we going down there?”
I flashed a wicked smile. “Because you’re going to infiltrate the—” my eyes flicked to the labeled rack, “—Wolf Brotherhood, and find Frank Connors. Check him out up close.”
Hi’s face went still. “I’m gonna do what now?”
“Today’s your lucky day, Hiram. You get to be a knight.”
“This armor smells like a goat’s Porta-John.”
“You’ll be fine.” Though, admittedly, I concurred with Hi’s assessment.
Hi was wearing a gray tunic and head-to-foot silver chain mail, complete with a helm shaped like a vulture’s head. He struggled down the steps, legs bowed, panting with exertion. I was legit concerned he might tumble all the way to the lawn below.
“I’m going to roast inside this tin can,” he whined. “Why are you torturing me again?”
“We need to locate Connors.” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I shaded my eyes to look for Shelton and Ben. “After that . . . I’m not sure. The evidence points to him as our guy, but we’ve got nothing tying him to the crime. You need to find something.”
Hi flipped up the visor of his ridiculous helm. “That’s it? Find something?”
“You’re the great improviser. Get close to him. See if he’s acting strangely.”
Hi gave me an exasperated look. “The dude dresses like Robin Hood, and is spending his convention bashing strangers with a fake broadsword he named Oathbreaker. But I’m supposed to see if he’s acting strangely. Got it.”
We passed a quartet of minstrels having a smoke break, then skirted a cluster of rainbow-colored pavilions. In moments we’d reached the heart of the medieval festival. I spotted Shelton and Ben standing beside a pretzel vendor. Waved.
“If Connors is our guy,” I said quietly, “he must be watching the clock, right? Checking his PayPal, or whatever. The ransom deadline is less than an hour away.”
Shelton’s voice cut through the din. “What in the name of Grayskull?”
Catching sight of Hi, Ben broke out laughing. He now wore a brand-spanking-new Hellboy T-shirt and shorts with the Warner Brothers logo. “Nice look, Stolowitski. I’d have paid money to see this.”
“You want me to start smiting?” Hi lifted his weapon—an ax blade mounted on a long pole, topped by a spike with some kind of metal hook on the back—and shook it at Ben. “I’m not sure what this is, exactly, but I’ll clobber you with it.”
“It’s a halberd.” Shelton couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. “Swiss weapon, from, like, the fourteenth century. Fun fact: Vatican guards still carry them on the job.”
“Awesome,” Ben quipped. “Why does doofus have one? And whose armor is that?”
“Don’t know,” I admitted. “Let’s hope the owner doesn’t notice we borrowed it.”
I winked at Ben. “Nice look yourself, by the way.”
“Best I could do.” But his face burned scarlet.
“Rifle a gym bag?” Hi muttered. “Oh no! That would be wrong. But steal some dude’s entire Crusade Warrior costume? That’s totally cool.”
I ignored him. My ethical standards may seem arbitrary, but they’re not. We’d return the armor as soon as we’d finished with it. You can’t return someone’s privacy.
Fine. I’m ridiculous. But it works for me.
“Just get close to this Connors guy,” I repeated. “See if he’s the one.”
“How?” Hi stamped a chain-mail-covered foot. “What, he’s just going to tell me he committed a felony?”
“I don’t know. Use your—”
“You there!”
I nearly jumped from my skin, head whipping to a red-faced court jester jogging toward our group. He didn’t look happy.
“Heads up,” I warned, crossing my fingers that this wasn’t Vulture Head’s owner.
Hi flipped down the visor on his helmet.
“Gerald the Terrible?” the man intoned, eyes on Hi, blue-and-yellow bells trembling on his floppy purple hat. “I thought you’d reposed to the inn for mead and bread? You’d best hurry if you want to partake in the melee!”
“Err.” Hi raised a hand awkwardly. Shrugged. “Um. Yeah.”
The jester waved impatiently. “Come! Your company hath already assembled in the north corner of the battleground. You’re attacking Skull Crusher’s fortress. In two minutes.”
“Right.” Hi didn’t move. Hitched up his stolen tunic. “Good.”
Exasperated, the jester grabbed Hi by his chain mail and hissed in a sharp Boston accent, “You need to get out there now, Jerry. Run, or everybody’s gonna be wicked pissed!”
“Is Frank Connors playing in this game?” I asked quickly.
The jester glanced at me in annoyance, resuming his regal brogue. “Lord Mace is defending Skull Crusher’s fortress, milady. And he’ll be most vexed if the battle is delayed.”
“Of course.” I tried a flirty smile. “And which one is Lord Mace, good sir?”
The jester stared as if I’d farted. “The one holding mighty Oathbreaker, of course!”
“Oathbreaker?” Ben scoffed. “What are you talking about?”
“The Sword of Despair,” the jester answered testily. Then he stepped closer and whispered, dropping the stage speech, “Frank’s the gigantic dude with the big red sword. Look, if you’re gonna hang out back here, you need to get the basics down. We try not break character.”
“Got it,” Ben deadpanned, “my liege.”
He winced as I kicked his ankle. “Understood, good jester. Our gracious thanks. Have a glorious battle.”
There. That seemed perfect.
The jester snorted. “Work on it. Now come on, Jerry.”
The peevish little fool marched Hi across the lawn to a group of men and women w
earing similar chain mail. At his arrival, his fellow warriors began working themselves up, bashing weapons together and pounding one another’s armor. Several welcomed “Gerald the Terrible” by thumping the side of his helm. Hi’s knees wobbled as he struggled to keep his feet.
“Oh man.” Shelton reached for an earlobe as we hurried for a better view. “This is not going to end well.”
Ben couldn’t stop chuckling. “He’s going to get skewered.”
A horn sound, triggering a roar from the opposite side of the field. A slightly larger group of warriors charged, howling like madmen, waving nasty-looking weapons above their heads. They flew toward Hi’s company.
The defending fighters quickly formed an organized battle line.
One that did not include Hiram.
He stood ten paces in front of the defensive formation, arms slack at his sides, facing the avalanche of screaming humanity alone.
“Oh, damn.” My hands rose to my face. “He froze.”
Several defenders shouted at Hi, waving him back, but our friend didn’t budge. He remained paralyzed, halberd drooping as the stampede of angry barbarians thundered closer.
“Hiram!” Hands now cupped to my mouth. “Run!”
I don’t know if he heard, or if his self-preservation instinct finally kicked in. In any case, Hi dropped his weapon and fled before the attacking tide.
Not soon enough. Fake swords clashed up and down the line. Hi stepped on his own pant leg and went down in a rattling heap. As he attempted to rise, a behemoth wielding a five-foot scarlet broadsword thumped him across the helm.
“Ooh!” All three of us at once.
“That hurt,” Shelton mumbled.
The battle ended quickly, with Hi’s squad getting trounced. His companions lay strewn across the ground in various depictions of feigned violent death. The victors whooped and yowled, high-fiving in a most unknightly manner.
“Well,” I said with a sigh, “at least that’s over. Maybe he can . . .”
I trailed off as the obvious became clear.
The victors retreated across the field, still pumping their fists. Hi’s company circled up in a tight bunch, bickering in angry tones that carried all the way to us. A man in an eagle-shaped helmet dragged Hi to his feet. His helm had been spun sideways, and it took two additional warriors to twist it back into place.